


The Chaperone

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, Moving On, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Spider-man villains, Super Soldier Serum, They all need therapy, for now at least, learning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-02-16 06:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18685894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: **Contains Major Endgame Spoilers - End of Movie Compliant**After the battle, after everything with Thanos, after Steve, and after the snap, Bucky is trying to find a place where he fits in again. It's easier said than done - until he gets an important mission and, once again, begins to find purpose in his life.ORThe one where Fury tasks Bucky with looking after Peter until his 18th Birthday.





	1. Chapter 1

Steven Grant Rogers, better known as Captain America, succumbed to injuries sustained while fighting Thanos. For three days, the best medical team in the world did everything they could to stabilize Rogers’ condition, but, in the end, there was nothing that could have been done. When the Captain passed, he was at peace and surrounded by friends. It was a good death.

That was the official story, anyway.

There were maybe a dozen people on earth (and a few in space) that knew the truth.

Steve Rogers, now known as Steve Carter, was currently enjoying retired life at Shady Oaks on the outskirts of Rochester - upstate New York.

As far as retirement homes went, Bucky had to admit this place was pretty nice. There were a few large common areas - a library, a games room, and even a gym. The grounds surrounding the building were small but well kept. If you looked out from a North facing room on the fourth floor - like the one Steve had - you could see the murky blue of Lake Ontario disappear into the curve of the earth.

Quaint, but not dull. The kind of place Steve deserved.

“What you thinking about, Buck?”

Bucky raised his eyebrows and turned from the window. “I’m just wondering if you’re technically cheating when you go lawn bowling. All these poor bastards probably can’t figure out why they can never beat you.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head.

“See - you don't even deny it.”

“I let them win sometimes.” The corners of Steve’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“Sometimes I wish I could tell everyone what an absolute _shit_ you are, Steve.”

“No one would believe you.”

“No, I guess not.” Bucky shrugged. “Can you imagine? ‘Hey - Captain America never actually matured past twelve years old’. People would think I was running a smear campaign.”

“The last thing _you_ need is more negative publicity.” Steve’s grin faltered. He paused for a moment.

“Steve?”

“I’m -” His words were cut off as a cough racked through his body. Not a small one  - his body shuttered and the wet hacking noise cut across the room.

“Do you need me to get someone? A nurse?” Bucky stepped forward and placed his hand against Steve’s back. He stopped coughing, but his breathing was still ragged.

“No,” Steve wheezed. “I’m alright. It’ll pass.” He lifted a glass of water from the side table and sipped between breaths.

“Hey - hey. Breath with me.” Bucky crouched next to Steve’s chair. “In - one, two, three, four. Hold - one, two, three four. Out - one, two, three, four. Hold - one, two, three, four.”

They stayed locked in their breath exercise - the one Bucky learned when they were young, and Steve was always forgetting his medication - for a few minutes. Bucky could’ve sworn it felt like hours.

“I’m good, Buck. Really,” Steve finally said.

Bucky nodded once, curtly. “I’ll know if you’re lying to me. That nurse, Leanna, she’s sweet on me. She’ll tell me if you’re not.”

Steve didn’t respond, but he did smile and pulled Bucky into a hug.

Bucky squeezed him back. “Take care of yourself. I mean it.”

“I will. I will.” Steve stood from his chair and walked to the door.

Bucky shouldered on his sweater, despite the August heat, and shoved his hand into his pocket to hide any flash of metal from his arm. “I’ll be back next week. Maybe even with Sam, depending on when he gets back from his mission. Text me if you need anything.”

Steve nodded. “Same goes for you.” He glanced at his phone. “I _do_ still know how to use those things, even if the font’s a bit smaller than I remembered.”

Bucky chuckled as he walked out. He kept his head down, carefully - there was a delicate balance of avoiding people’s gaze without making it look like he’s purposely avoiding people’s gaze. Still, a few of the seniors throw him a glance. Bucky suspected that was more to do with his long hair and scruff, though, rather than the fact he was an internationally wanted criminal at one point.

He signed the sign-out sheet in his best fake scrawl - James Carter. Bucky even looped the ‘J’ all fancy.

“Good to see you again, James.”

Bucky looked up. The brunette nurse, Leanna, smiled at him. “Good to see you too,” he says politely. He didn’t want to lead her on, but he also didn’t want to lose a place in her good books.

“Did you have a good visit with your uncle?”

“Great uncle, actually,” Bucky said. He smiled to himself. “But yeah, I did. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

“Of course - see you next week?”

He nodded. “As always.”

In the parking lot, his bike sat under the shade of a grand maple tree.

The drive back to the city was long, but Bucky didn’t mind. Driving kept his mind clear - he could let his thoughts wash over him and push them to the back of his head. The wind would push against his body. He’d fix his eyes on the road, on the ever-coming roll of the asphalt, on the colours and makes of the passing cars, and on the shifting light of the sun. He didn’t have to think about anything else. He could ignore all the thoughts that constantly bit at the edges of his mind and just drive.

By the time he reached New York, the sun was sinking behind the spread of skyscrapers. Warm gold light spread down the streets. The shadows of the buildings grew and cast shade over the alleys, but it was not yet the dangerous blackened cover of night.

Bucky parked his bike in the lot under his Brooklyn apartment. The building was only a few blocks from where he and Steve had grown up - if Bucky wanted he could be there in five minutes - but the borough was unrecognizable from the place he remembered.

The city was the same, more or less. Sure, there were new buildings, but the old ones hadn’t disappeared. New York City was a tapestry - a sleek modern building would sit sandwiched between a historic landmark and a bodega built in the 80s. The people who walked the streets might’ve worn shorter shorts, brighter colours, and lower pants, but they were still New Yorkers. Instead of burying their faces in newspapers, they buried their faces in their phones. They took the subway; they worked too much; they never stopped. New York was, as always, New York

Brooklyn, on the other hand, had changed. Fundamentally. It didn’t feel the same anymore - Bucky had thought settling at ‘home’ would make the transition back to the States easier, but now he wondered if it was the worse that way. He could adjust to an entirely new place, but he could never stop seeing Brooklyn for what it once was. The city, in Bucky’s head, existed doubly. Every street was not a single street, but the overlay of the past and the present bundled in one.  

When he thought about it, his head hurt almost as much as his heart.

Buck took the stairs to his third-floor apartment. The glass elevator only made him feel the familiar vice of claustrophobia.

His neighbour from 3B - a young woman with pink hair and a nose ring - waved at Bucky. He didn’t wave back.

Outside his unit, 3D, Bucky paused. He could hear something, faintly, coming from inside.

He closed his eyes. The floorboards creaked. Whoever was inside had to be at least his size, if not larger. In the air, the scent of an unknown scent lingered. Not cologne - the intruder would have realized that would be too obvious - but a soap mixed with something else. _Mixed with gunpowder._

Bucky didn’t have anything on him - the seniors’ home generally frowned upon people bringing in firearms. In any case, Bucky hadn’t anticipated trouble. In the few months since Thanos, the world had grown quiet. An aftershock of peace. Now, he had to ready himself for a fight.

With his ear pressed to the door, Bucky listened to the movement in his unit. The footsteps inside were purposefully light - not the kind of care that a petty thief would take.

He wrapped his hand against the doorknob and turned it, slowly. It was still locked. The break-in definitely wasn’t a random chance. Someone had targetted Bucky and made sure to cover their tracks.

Bucky glanced, left and right, and made sure the hallway was empty. He took a breath. _In - one, two, three, four. Hold - one, two, three four. Out - one, two, three, four. Hold - one, two, three, four._

Bucky burst forward. He slammed all his weight against the wood.

His apartment door exploded inward, cleaving free from the frame and the hinges. Splinters of wood cascaded over the stone tile floor.

Bucky tensed his calf muscles and sprang toward the black-clad figure lounging on his couch. The case in the man’s hand tumbled across the room and collided with the far wall.

Bucky’s head thundered with blood. The world blurred with his movement and rage.

The man hit the ground, clearly unprepared for Bucky’s attack. Still, the man rolled, sending Bucky flying into his glass coffee table. He brushed the shards off his back and lunged, again, toward the man.

This time, he couldn't throw Bucky off. Bucky’s arm, the metal one, tightened over the intruder's throat.

“Motherfucker.” The intruder raised his hands over his head in surrender. “Stand down, soldier.”

Bucky dropped his hand. He blinked, trying to clear the rush of adrenaline. “Shit.”

On the ground of Bucky’s apartment was Nick Fury. He rubbed at the base of his throat.

Bucky reached down and pulled Fury to his feet. “You could knock next time.”

Fury raised his eyebrow. “Would you have answered?”

Bucky didn’t respond. They both knew the answer. “Why are you here?”

The lines of Fury’s face hardened again as he shifted his surprise behind his always-cool wall. “I have an assignment for you.”

“Why not ask Sam? He’s the one with the shield and stars and stripes.”

Fury crossed his arms over his chest. “Wilson is a bit busy at the moment. He doesn’t need another thing on his plate.” He picked his dark briefcase up from where it had collided with the wall (leaving a dent, Bucky noted) and set it on the table. Fury pressed his thumb against a glass pad, and the case clicked open. “At any rate, Wilson wasn’t my first choice for this assignment. You were.”

Bucky blinked. “Me?”

From the case, Fury lifted free a plain looking file. “You.” He handed the file to Bucky.

Bucky opened the file. Clipped to the stack of reports was a single, coloured picture of Spider-Man, suit on, mask off. The kid's hair was a rumpled mess, and a wide grin was plastered across his face.  

Bucky wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. “The kid? I thought he was in Europe. Dealing with that wannabe.”

“He was.” Fury nodded. “And that ‘wannabe’ is why we need to watch out. The guy - called himself ‘Mysterio’ - created fake threats so he could take them down.”

“Like the firefighter-arsonist .”

“Exactly. Wanted to make himself a hero by solving the problem he created. Luckily for us, the kid saw through him.” Fury sat at the kitchen table, and Bucky followed suit. They didn’t have much longer to talk - one of his neighbours might’ve called the police. If not, someone would notice the missing door.

“But this ‘Mysterio’ guy, he’s gone now, right?”

“He is. But there’ll be others. Barton’s retired - again. Banner’s in no shape to fight — Thor’s off-world. Rogers is out of the picture. Stark and Natasha...” Fury shook his head. “My point is that there’s a power vacuum. Things might be quiet right now, but they won’t always be that way.”

Bucky studied Fury’s face. “I still don’t know exactly what you’re asking.”

Fury folded his hands into a bundle and met Bucky’s gaze. “We’re not entirely powerless. We have people capable of dealing with threats when they arise. But - if possible - I’d like to avoid these threats from being created in the first place.”

“Aside from a select few, the world believes Rogers is dead,” Fury continued, “and even fewer still know that _you_ were also injected with a form of the Super Soldier Serum. That doesn’t mean anyone is going to stop trying to create a superhuman - without the deterrent of the Avengers, everyone is going to be crawling out of the woodwork to try and make the next Captain America.”

Bucky froze as the realization crawled over him. “There’s only one obvious choice to copy.”

Fury nodded in confirmation. “If anyone wanted to make the next version of the serum, they’re gonna target the kid. He's only a few weeks shy of seventeen and there are hundreds of videos online of him lifting buses in pyjamas - that strength can’t be denied.

Bucky sighed and rubbed at his face. The sunlight that flittered into his apartment was fading fast. Outside, in the hall, he could hear a commotion. He needed to leave. “Is Hydra still out there?”

“Was it ever really gone?”

Bucky let out a breath through his teeth. “Shit.”

Fury seemed to realize they needed to leave, too. “Take care of the kid until his 18th birthday."

"And after that?"

"It's not your concern what happens to him after that." He drummed his index finger on the file in Bucky’s hand. “For now, watch him like a damn hawk. Hydra won’t be the only one looking for him.”

Fury stood and took in the mess of Bucky’s apartment: the destroyed door; the shattered coffee table; the dent in the far wall.

Bucky shrugged. “I was never crazy about this place.”

“We can help set you up. If you agree to protect the kid, of course. Just over a year.”

Bucky looked at the picture of the kid - his smile was so young and carefree. Kid probably didn’t have a clue what kind of danger was lurking in the shadows. He snapped the file shut and hardened his jaw. “I’ll do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fury, true to his word, had a new apartment ready for Bucky when he left the hotel at noon the next day. The new place was simple. The studio setup meant Bucky could see it all the moment he walked in: a simple queen bed, with a navy duvet; a desk and kitchen table in matching light wood; no decorations on the walls. It could’ve been lifted straight out of a catalogue. It probably _was_ lifted out of a catalogue. Bucky wasn’t about to complain though. The apartment was functional. That was all that mattered.

The building was about five blocks from where the kid lived. Close enough that surveillance would be easy, but not too close that Bucky would risk an accidental encounter.

Bucky shrugged the backpack off his shoulder and pulled out the contents. There were only a few things that had been worth saving from his old place anyway. He set his laptop on the desk and wound the charger’s cord behind the wood top to an outlet. He put his toothbrush next to the sink, but he realized he shouldn’t have worried - someone had stocked the tiny bathroom with extra toiletries. Bucky opened the closet next to hang up the few clothes he bought, only to find that someone had stocked that, too. He pushed through the rack: dull colours, all his size.

Bucky frowned. Most of the shirts were t-shirts. Fury - or one of his lackeys - hadn’t thought of everything after all.

Bucky tossed his empty bag into the closet, kicked off his shoes, and lay in his new bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, with just the right amount of firmness. He laced his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. A few spots were discoloured. This was probably one of the units that had been abandoned - hell, this whole _building_ might’ve been abandoned, for all Bucky knew. It would explain the slightly musty scent that lingered.

For now, this place would be a good base. Neat and clean and functional. From here, Bucky swore to reintegrate back into American society. Wakanda was great for unscrambling his brain, but he’d still been on the outskirts. By this time next year, he’d figure the new America out.

Maybe he’d even figure out Brooklyn.

 

Bucky spent the better part of the day researching the kid. Fury’s files were detailed but impersonal. If Bucky wanted to follow this kid, if he wanted to keep him safe, Bucky would need to know more than his height and eye colour.

The kid’s online presence was sparse. Almost ridiculously non-existent, especially for a kid his age. The privacy must have been courtesy of Tony Stark - no one else could have locked this kid down so tightly. Facebook, Instagram, YouTube - nothing.

After a few hours of searching, Bucky did manage to dig up a digital copy of an old school newspaper. There was a photo of the kid, and a dozen of his classmates, all clad in yellow. _Academic Decathlon_ , the caption read.

Bucky smiled. The names of all the students were spelled out under the picture, left to right. In the photo, Parker leaned toward one boy, Ned Leeds. Both of their faces were plastered with a goofy grin. In Fury’s files, the Leeds boy had been listed as a ‘known associate’. Bucky chuckled to himself. _Associate._ From the photo alone, Bucky could tell the boys were best friends.

It was a detail that couldn’t be overlooked.

He’d need to watch Leeds, too. If anyone else ever figured out the connection between the two boys, they’d exploit it.

Bucky sighed and rolled his arm in its socket. The new tech was good - almost unbelievably so - but no amount of medicine or advance in the prosthesis could stop the dull ache that persistently throbbed where his flesh met the metal. Moving it was better. When he stayed still too long, the stiffness worked its way back into Bucky’s joints.

He snapped his laptop closed.

From the closet, he fished out a grey long-sleeve t-shirt and jammed a New York Islanders baseball cap on over his hair. As always, he buried the smooth metal of his hand in the pocket of his jeans.

The late afternoon was stifling hot. Most people, it seemed, took refuge in the cool air-conditioned shops. The people still on the streets had a gleam of perspiration - sweat pooled at the napes of their necks, at the place where their shirt collars met their skin, and at the underarms of their shirts.

Buck passed a small park. From the edge of his vision, he could see a small group of kids, no more than ten, playing. One tossed a water balloon at another girl. She blocked it with a plastic shield - painted with red, white, and blue. Bucky tensed and turned his head back to the street in front of him. He kept his vision focused on the road, not straying to the sides.

When he reached the front of the kid’s apartment, he found a comfortable place on the bench across the street. Bucky settled in, shifting on the cement, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He kept his head down, his eyes up, and his ears open.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The kid came up the street just over half an hour later. He had a bag, slung over his shoulder and a carefree look on his face. His skin tanned a shade darker than in the photo, but, if the intel on his healing factor was correct, by morning the colour would vanish. He moved openly - he didn’t look over his shoulder. His eyes didn’t dart from person to person. He waved and nodded at an older woman leaving the building as he entered.

He’d be an easy target. No wonder Fury assigned Bucky to the kid’s case - he wouldn’t last long on his own.

The kid disappeared inside for a while, but Bucky didn’t leave.

Sure enough, a few hours later, a red and blue bug crawled from a window on the fifth floor. One of the central units, facing East, Bucky noted. He watched the kid swing away, over the rooftops, towards the city.

Silently, Bucky followed as the kid arced above the streets of Queens. His costume wasn’t exactly built for stealth - when there was a moment when Bucky thought he’d lost the trail, a flash of red would catch the corner of his eye.

After about an hour, the kid dropped down to the street level just before the end of Queens, right where the tunnel dips under the river into the city. The kid surveyed the street, looking slowly from side to side.

Bucky ducked around a corner and paused too. He cocked his head. It wasn’t him the kid had seen. Through the night, Bucky could hear the faint but unmistakable grind of metal against metal.

He moved from his hiding place slowly and maintained a casual gait. The kid wasn’t visible on the main street anymore. Bucky walked, ears tuned into the grind of metal. He stopped at the edge of a brick warehouse, where the alley met the main street.

“Let me guess - you left your keys in your other pants?” The kid’s voice was still as high as Bucky remembered, but there was something else now. A bitter edge teased his tone.

The metal grinding stopped. “Get him,” a gruff voice shouted.

Bucky heard footsteps fall against the pavement. Three men, it sounded like, all with decent builds.

“Why is it always ‘get him’?” The hiss of his webs thwipped, making a soft thump as one of the men fell to the ground. “I put a lot of time and thought into my words. I’d appreciate it if you guys would do the same.” Another thwip of the web, another thud of a body on the pavement.

The last guy, it seems, was more nimble than the other two. The commotion didn’t stop - the man dodged the kid’s next two webs.

The kid groaned in pain. Bucky tensed, readying himself to join the fight.

“Low blow man,” the kid chokes out, “literally, that’s below the belt. Not cool.”

“What are you gonna do about it? With all your friends six feet under, who’s going to come running to help you?”

The kid didn’t reply. Even from around the corner and even with his own head pounding with anger, Bucky felt the tension build in the air.

Through the alley, a crunch of bone cracked. The man muffled a scream in pain and hit the ground, joining his friends.

“The police can deal with you,” the kid said before he shot up to the rooftop and disappeared back into the cover of night.

Bucky looked out. All three of them were webbed up to the side of the building, with their tool bag at their feet. The one in the middle was still out cold and sported a swollen eye - the faint wheeze of his breath came with a slow, grinding crunch of bone. The kid had fractured his ribs.

Bucky swallowed and turned on his heel, back down the street. He pulled his hat down further, over the lines of his face, least any security cameras pick him up.

He’d underestimated the kid.

So had the criminals.

But there was a rage inside the kid, one that no one had seen coming. Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck. This job might be more complicated than he’d thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few weeks, Bucky fell into a comfortable routine. He’d wake up at 7, on the dot, and exercise for an hour, always in his apartment. He’d do push-ups, with his right arm, until his muscle rubbered, followed my squats, crunches, and the rest of the routine he’d learned in basic training. By the end of the hour of exercise, sweat stuck his skin to his clothing - the summer had been unusually hot, and Bucky’s tiny room didn’t have AC.

After a cold shower and breakfast (two fried eggs, black coffee, and toast), he’d head down and stake out a place near the kid’s apartment.

He pushed back his weekly visit with Steve. He watched the kid wander the city with the Leeds boy- they stopped for ice cream at colourful parkside stands. They’d disappear inside for chunks of time, playing video games and watching seasons of TV shows.

The kid was still on summer break, so his schedule was chaotic - the only consistent part Bucky could count on was the fact the kid wouldn’t stir until at least ten in the morning. Even later, some days. Between the typical teenage laziness and the late nights the kid pulled while patrolling, Bucky was surprised he got up at all some days.

Sam’s mission got extended. Bucky watched the kid. He’d swing through the city with ease - he usually kept to Queens and Manhattan, but occasionally the kid dipped into Brooklyn if he caught a hint of any noise. After the first night, the kid hadn’t hurt anyone - not seriously, at least. Kid was always pulling his punches.

The city was quiet, more so than Bucky could ever remember it, but he still watched the kid.

Petty theft was on the rise, and that was precisely the sort of thing the kid went after.

Bucky watched the kid, always tense. Always ready to intervene if needed.

The kid didn’t need him.

He held his own in every fight, even though he held back nearly all his strength. That sort of control... Bucky struggled for months before he could hold a piece of fruit without his metal fingers puncturing the skin. He remembered - despite the scrambled mess of his brain - trying to hold a peach, once. A rare moment of lucidity. It was the 80s if the music was anything to go by. Somewhere warm, maybe Monaco. Maybe Cannes. He reached for the fruit piled neatly on the stand.

The peach, under his hand, exploded in a mess of pulp. The juice ran down his hand and pooled on the cobblestone.

He couldn’t remember what happened next, no matter how much he raked through his thoughts. It was just one of the gaps he’d have to learn to live with.

The kid’s control was precise. He didn’t have nightmares about being wrought into a weapon by Hydra. He probably didn’t think about what would happen if he _lost_ that control of his - even when the kid was angry, he only cracked a rib. The kid didn’t have to worry that there might be forgotten bugs or hidden codewords still tucked away inside his head.

Maybe that was why Fury assigned Bucky to the case - he worried about Hydra and super soldiers and brainwashing enough for the both of them.

One night, the kid stayed late at the Leeds boy’s house. They watched cartoons (if the spectre of television light against the window was anything to go off of) until three in the morning. Bucky observed from his battered Honda Civic (courtesy of Fury) as the kid slipped out the window and flung himself into the night.

Once the kid shimmied into his place, it was nearly four in the morning. Bucky headed back to his apartment. He didn’t leave the parking garage.

Instead, he backed the civic into the stall, pulled the familiar set of keys from the inner pocket of his jacket, and revved the engine of his bike. It hummed to life with a comforting purr.

The world and roads were dark, but Bucky knew the route. He kept the handles steady, despite the bumps in the road, until the sun slipped over the horizon. The thoughts came: flashes of unfamiliar cities; shouts of foreign languages; blows to his body that Bucky couldn’t feel. At the time, those moments of clarity were gifts. Now, he pushed them down and set his jaw and focused on the passing world of upstate New York.

He reached Shady Oaks just after nine in the morning.

The nurse wasn’t Leanna - she’d older and more stern. She didn’t welcome Bucky; she only pointed at the log book. “Sign here.”

He did. He knew the routine. He scribbled his - or James Carter’s- signature into the square, inked in ‘9:08 a.m.’ in the next box, and set off down the hallway towards the stairwell.

“Excuse me,” the nurse said.

Bucky turned and raised his eyebrows.

“You have to use the hand sanitizer before entering.” She jerked her chin toward a laminated piece of paper next to a plastic dispenser. “We can’t risk spreading germs.”

“Of course we can’t,” Bucky grumbled. He walked back toward the stand, turned his back to the nurse, and pumped the liquid into his hand. The nurse had a sharp eye - the last thing he needed was her catching a flash of the dark metal and connecting some dots that would be better left alone.

“It’s the home’s policy. You better get in the habit of doing it every time.”

“I will,” Bucky said with false sweetness as he walked away, his left hand shoved back into his pocket.

When he reached Steve’s room, he was reading the morning paper and sipping at a mug of dark coffee. “Buck,” he said with a smile. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Bucky pulled him into a hug. “I’ve been busy, but I had some PTO. Well, I made some PTO.”

Steve chuckled. “Not going AWOL, are you?”

“Maybe a little.” Bucky helped himself to a mug and coffee from the pot on the counter of Steve’s small kitchenette.

“Some vacation time isn’t a bad thing. God, Buck. Peggy and I, we had this - this cottage,” he started, his voice choked. Even in all of Bucky’s visits, Steve had never spoken about his life - his other life. “We had this cottage out in Montauk. It was a shitty old thing - no matter how much I tried to fix it, the wind still rattled the window panes and blew sand inside. But when you were out there, there wasn’t anything in the world you could worry about if you tried. There was only the dunes of the beach and the ocean stretching out as far as you could see.” Steve’s lip quivered. “You should find yourself a Montauk, Buck.”

Bucky bit his tongue. “I’ll try.” He knew his voice was flat and dead, but he didn’t bother trying to hide it.

Steve cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. “So, who’s got you roped into this job?” Steve’s voice sounded casual, but Bucky had known him long enough to hear the lilt of suspension buried in his words.

“It’s Fury - don’t worry.” Buck sat in the armchair next to the open window. “I’m watching the kid’s back.”

“Queens?”

Bucky nodded. “Fury thinks there’s a chance someone might come for him - especially now that Stark’s gone and you’re ... well, you’re not exactly on the board either.”

Steve frowned and cast his gaze at the floorboards. “Is the threat any credible?”

“I haven’t seen anything yet. All the channels I’ve tried to monitor are dead  - even Hydra is still recovering from the snap.”

“But it could be?”

Bucky sighed. “The kid... what he can do, Steve, it’s incredible. He caught Stark’s attention for a good reason.”

“Other people are bound to notice.”

Bucky nodded in affirmation. “He’s lucky someone else didn’t find him before Stark...” Bucky trailed off, unsure what else to say.

Steve, thankfully, pivoted the topic. “The world’s still in recovery, I think. Everyone is shocked and holding on to what they have for dear life.”  
“But,” Bucky said.

Steve smiled wistfully. “But it’s not going to last. This summer’s been a blessing. The cracks are going to start to show. There’s going to be shortages of food and water. Unemployment is the highest it’s ever been. All of the horrible things we grew up with in the 30s - it’s all going to come back with a vengeance. Over those five years, the world adjusted to living with only half the population. It’s going to take some time to readjust.”

Bucky nodded slowly. He rubbed at his temple and tried to ignore the ache of his head. “Hey - at least there’s more varieties of Coca - Cola than there was in the 30s. I swear there must’ve been a dozen kinds when I was at the grocery store the other day.”

“Don’t get me started - when I first settled into 2012 I thought half of the flavours of potato chips were a joke,” he said with a laugh.

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Food doesn’t taste the same, though. It’s too... plastic.”

Steve nodded, once, in agreement. “It tastes like shit.”

For a moment, as they laughed, the ghost of the years between them slipped into the ether - they were just two kids from Brooklyn again, tumbling around the city with hearts too big for their heads.

* * *

 

Bucky got back to Queens late in the afternoon. Sleep prickled at his eyes, but over the years he’d become used to fighting that sensation.

Before he went back to his apartment, he drove past the kid’s place to check and make sure everything was still as quiet as when he’d left.

Bucky didn’t have to look hard - the kid was walking out of his building, straightening out a collared shirt, with a bouquet of wrapped flowers in his hand. Even from a distance, the nervous energy the kid emitted was palpable.

Kid had a date.

Bucky smirked.

He pulled his bike into a lot around the corner and followed the kid, from a comfortable distance, as he walked off into the city.  

In the subway, Bucky got on the car behind the one the kid hopped into and settled between a lost tourist and two gossiping tweens in a spot with a clean line of sight to the doors.

In midtown, the kid got off. Bucky followed. It was easier to hide in the thick of the city than it was in the suburbs - the rush of people provided an excellent cover. It was so simple to slip behind someone taller, or turn to a side street, or dip into a shop.

Outside of a Korean restaurant, the kid stopped. He fiddled with his collar again and tried to make the flip of the fabric sit flat.

Buck slipped into the coffee shop across the street. He ordered the largest and sweetest-sounding drink on the menu and sat at a round table next to the window. From his spot, he could see the entrance of the restaurant and the kid (practically bouncing) waiting out in front.

After a few minutes, a tall girl with a twist of curly dark hair walked up to the kid. She smiled, and he hugged her, awkwardly, before handing her the flowers as though they were an afterthought.

They went inside. Bucky stayed in his place, sipping at the disgustingly sweet (Bucky didn’t even know it _could_ be that sweet) coffee that glazed his mouth. Somehow, even ordering the drink he wanted felt too personal.

Bucky kept his eyes fixed on the restaurant and took in the scene of the street. A steady stream of people swam by, all absorbed in their own lives. A young woman pecked a man’s cheek. A family walked along, the kid in the middle holding his parents’ hands and swing her feet in the air. A pack of friends laughed with each other, absorbed in conversation.

Bucky swirled his cup around and set it on the table. He shifted his metal arm in its socket. _Stay focused on the mission,_ he reminded himself.

After nearly two hours, the kid and his date walked out. The sun was glowing as it set, and the tension had visibly faded from the kid’s face. They set off uptown, leaning in close together but not quite touching.

Bucky tossed his half-empty cup in the crash and traced their path. He wove through the crowd, keeping his eyes on the kid’s crop of sandy-brown hair and the girl’s messy curls.

Somewhere around 36th and Madison, he lost them at the turn of a crossing light. Bucky frowned. The kid’s guard was down right now - he’d be vulnerable to any attack.

Bucky studied the shops along the street, looking for any place they might’ve ducked into.

A glint of a dark twist of hair - the girl’s - caught the edge of Bucky’s sight as they turned a corner. Bucky pulled the top of his hat lower and turned on his heel, following the kid and his date.

As Bucky turned the corner, a hand clipped his shoulder - his good one. Long nails pricked into his skin and wrenched him back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky blinked.

The girl -the kid’s date - scowled back at him. Her face twisted in malcontent.


	4. Chapter 4

The girl narrowed her gaze. Behind her, the kid stood, frowning, tensed, and ready to spring. When his eye’s met Bucky’s, the concern fell off his face. “Oh. It’s you.” The kid stepped forward, to the girl’s side, and put his hand on hers. “It’s okay, M.J.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “I told you we were being followed.” She let go of Bucky’s shoulder.

“He’s a - a friend. I guess.” The kid scratched his head. “Why  _ are  _ you following us?”

Bucky glanced between the two of them - the girl crossed her arms over her chest (wrapped flowers still in hand) and frowned, clearly not ready to believe anything Bucky would say. The kid wore a familiar look of confusion, but his arms hung lazily by his side. “A mutual friend asked me to keep an eye on you,” Bucky said.

“A mutual friend?” The kid’s face screwed up in thought. “Do you mean Fury?”

_ For fuck’s sake.  _ “You really don’t get the whole ‘covert’ thing, do you?”

“It’s alright. M.J. knows about my, uh, my bug... problem.”

“I figured it out,” the girl said. She stayed still and suspicious, but her gaze twitched toward the kid. She’d pieced it together - if she could figure it out, then so could someone else if they watched close enough. 

“We are in  _ public _ . First rule - never assume you’re not being watched. Bugs can be anywhere, especially these days. We can talk about the details later.”

“We - we don’t need to talk about this later,” the kid said, trying to sound intimidating. “I can look out for myself.”

“Sure you can,” Bucky said. 

“I think you two should talk,” the girl said. “My dad’s place is only a block from here, I can walk myself home.”

The kid’s face faltered. “Text me when you’re home?”

She nodded, and the two hugged, less awkward than when they first met. Bucky watched the kid watching her as she took off uptown. 

“What’s the real reason you’re here?” 

Bucky shifted in his spot. “I told you. I’ve been asked to watch your back.”

The kid eyed Bucky. 

“You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true.” Bucky moved toward the nearest entrance to the subway, and the kid followed at his heels.

“I can watch my own back.”

“No shame in having someone watch your six.” Bucky bought tickets for both of them - he handed the kid the white and green paper. 

The kid said nothing. He stared at Bucky, his puppy-dog eyes drifting from his faded baseball cap to his work boots as if he were trying to make a mental checklist of every one of Bucky’s features. When the train came, they got on, the kid still following Bucky - had it not occurred to him that if he really didn’t want to be here, he could just walk away?

Bucky took a seat in the subway car and the kid sat directly across the aisle. He folded his arms and puffed up his chest. Bucky turned his laugh into a cough. “Look,” he said. “I don’t care if you want me to watch out for you or not - I’m going to be doing it with or without your permission.” 

The kid rolled his eyes. He  _ was  _ still a teenager, Bucky reminded himself, even if he could lift a bus. 

“Of course, it would be much easier for the both of us if you accepted a little help.” Bucky shrugged. “But what do  _ I know _ .”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” The kid looked at Bucky pointedly. 

_ Not really. _ “I told our friend I’d look out for you. I have no intention of letting him down.”

“I’m not stepping aside, either.” The kid’s voice rose with a note of challenge. “I don’t want to hear how I’m ‘not ready’ or ‘too young’. You’re not gonna sideline me.”

“You’re what kid, sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

Bucky leaned forward, not wanting anyone to overhear. “Look, kid - I’m the last person who’s gonna sideline you for being too young. In - in the war,” Bucky started. He hadn’t expected his voice to still catch when he spoke about, well, the start of everything. “There were lots of soldiers who could barely grow patchy stubble. They were your age, or even younger, but they lied on their enlistment forms. Couldn’t stand to sit back and watch while others fought.”

The kid opened his mouth to say something, but Bucky cut him off. “I’m not encouraging it. But I do understand.”

They rode the rest of the way to Queens in silence. The kid kept eyeing him, but Bucky didn’t mind. He studied the rest of the subway car, taking in the array of people and mentally cataloging possible escape routes and noting any threats. He wished he could turn it off sometimes, but he could never snap off the overactivity in his head. In some ways, it was alright. He never went without a plan. Mostly, he just wanted to rest and relax his muscles and to see a place for its beauty instead of an array of potential threats strung together. 

When the train rolled into the station nearest to the kid’s Bucky stood before the kid did. The kid’s face - which had softened slightly toward the end of the ride - hardened into a tight mask again. “It’s creepy that you know where I live.”

Bucky let the kid lead the way to his apartment. “I’ve been called worse, kid.” 

They reached the apartment building and Bucky sighed, resigned. He’d expected the kid would’ve cracked by now. 

“You’re not coming inside.” The kid paused before the glass door. “And I still don’t need your help.”

Bucky chucked. “Let me give you my number and address.” The kid started to protest, but Bucky raised his hand in the air in mock surrender. “You can call me to tell me how much you don’t need my help. Hell - you can knock on my door at three in the morning to show me how fine you’re doing by yourself. Alright?”

The kid hesitated. “Fine.” He shoved his hand into his pocket and handed Bucky a sleek new phone - one of Stark’s.

The comment started forming on Bucky’s tongue - a casual remark that this model wasn’t due out until next month - but he held it back. He wasn’t ready to touch any topic related to Stark just yet, no matter how tangential.

Bucky held the phone his left hand and typed his phone number and address in with his right index finger. 

The kid snorts.

“What?”

“You text like someone twice your age.”

Bucky grimaced as he handed back the phone. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me cracking the screen.” He flexes his metal hand - his control is better than he’d ever thought possible, but he still doesn’t trust it, especially with delicate things. 

“Oh.” The kid scratched the back of his head and looked at Bucky, his face open. “And uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes.”   


“About what?”

“The uh - airport thing. In Berlin.”

Bucky chuckled. “I’m sorry for interrupting your date. Word of advice - if you’re bringing her flowers, give them to her at her place before the date. That way she can put them in water. Stops them from wilting.”

The kid nodded and Bucky left him at the apartment doors. He found his bike in the lot across the street and speed back to his unit, his eye barely registering the road or traffic.

When he reached his door, he kicked off his boots and shed his sweater. He flopped in the bed, with his jeans still on, and welcomed the sleep that washed over him. When he was tired like this - exhausted from his brain to his bones - he didn’t dream. 

Bucky wished for more nights like this.

* * *

 

A few days later, in the last week of August, Sam rolled back into town. It was nearly three weeks later than when he’d initially planned to return and he was sporting a shiny black eye and split lip. 

“What can I say? It comes with the job,” he said with a laugh. He finished off the end of his beer and raised his hand to the bartender to order another. “The ladies dig it. They all coo over how injured I am - how  _ noble _ I am.”

Bucky swirled his beer around in the glass. He couldn’t get drunk, and he didn’t care too much for the taste, but he’d come out with Sam for the socialization. “There’s some great nurses up at Steve’s place if you’re looking for someone. Hell, they probably have an extra bed - I can call and check you in next week.” Bucky smirked into his drink. 

Sam shook his head and launched into the vague details of the mission. The bar was seedy enough that no one would expect them to be there, but they always watched their words.

_ It was nice _ , Bucky thought vaguely,  _ to have someone to talk to.  _ For as long as Bucky could remember, all his social interactions were defined by some obligation. There was always Steve, of course, but in the army, his relationship with the other Commandos was born out of necessity and chance - they were captured together, and stepped up to fight together. 

In all of Bucky’s lost years, he remembered only pieces of conversations and fragments of something that resembled companionship. In his lost years, he wasn’t human - he was a machine with a metal arm and a faulty wired brain. The only people who spoke to him were either ones authorized to handle the asset or marks. Bucky took a swig of beer and pushed the thoughts down. 

Then there was Steve. Again. 

In Wakanda, he was a project. Someone who drew in prosthetic designers and experts in psychology and politicians. It wasn’t that he wasn’t thankful - he owed them his life - but they weren’t people who voluntarily came into Bucky’s life. They weren’t people who stuck by his side once the obligation was gone. 

Sam did stick around, but Bucky wasn’t exactly sure he’d call the guy a friend. He wouldn’t call him up at any hour of the night, they wouldn’t be best men at each other’s weddings or any of that sentimental shit.  _ Drinking buddies, _ Bucky decided on. That was the most accurate way to describe their relationship. 

“So,” Sam said, picking up his second pint (they always need the first one to get through his stories). “What’s been keeping you busy?”

“Well, I moved.”

“Didn’t like the place in Brooklyn?”

“Something like that.” Bucky sipped at his drink. He only ever ordered one - anything more would be a waste of money. “But, I uh, actually got a job. Or an assignment, at least.”

“Oh, did you now?” Same raised his eyebrows. “Do I even want to know”

Bucky smirks into his drink. “I’m looking after the bug boy.”   
Sam choked on his lager. “The one who tried to arrest me?” 

“What, do you have multiple bug-themed children trying to arrest you?”

Sam sank back in his seat. “How much is Fury paying you?”

“Enough. Got a decent place out in Queens covered too.” Bucky rubbed at his stubble, not sure how much to say. “It’s... complicated. There might be people looking for him.”

Sam nodded, understanding. “Well, if one of those, uh,  _ interested parties _ gets to be too much, just let me know.”

“I think the power of that red and blue frisbee went to your head. I’ll manage my job - you can worry about yours.”

Sam grew thoughtful. “Alright. Offer always stands though, you know that.”

“Of course.”

Sam nodded, again, shifted in his spot and paused. “Did I ever tell you about the time I spent labour day I spent in Montreal with my ex? I mean, she wasn’t my ex at the time...” He was a natural storyteller, Bucky would admit that, and by the time his beer became froth at the bottom of an empty glass, the hollowness inside his chest closes up a bit. 

As Sam cleared up with the bartender, the mechanic chime of Bucky's phone rang through the dingy dive. It took him a second before he realized that it even  _ was  _ his phone - he had hardly heard it sound. 

Bucky ducked out the door, into the alley. “Hello?”

“Hello? Mr. Barnes?” The voice on the other end squeaked with nerve.

“Kid?”

“I, uh, talked with M.J. last night.”

“Did you make a decision?”

“I, uh, well I’ve got some rules - some terms of agreement. But I guess it’s alright if you wanna stalk me.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a smile. “Smart choice.”

Mentally, he added the kid to the list of people who were only in his life because of duty. The list made it easier to stay unattached - Bucky wouldn’t mistake obligation for care.  He couldn’t afford to be so careless. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all see that Far From Home trailer? It was just too much.

The sizzle of eggs on a frying pan and the acrid warmth of coffee filled Bucky’s small apartment. Bucky tucked the kid’s file into the drawer of his desk, closed his laptop, and straightened the sheets and pillows on his bed. 

At ten, on the dot, someone buzzed up. Kid must’ve been waiting outside. Even still, Bucky answered - he couldn’t risk taking the chance. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” the kid’s voice came through. 

Bucky let him in and waited by his unit’s door. He didn’t need the prying eyes of neighbours and Bucky was sure that Mrs. Martinez in the corner apartment would see the kid as an open invitation to interrogate Bucky about his life. 

He opened the door before the kid even knocked. 

The kid stood in the entrance way, his backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing a plain white t-shirt with the image of a bubbling beaker splayed across the center. Underneath, the caption read ‘you’re overreacting’. Bucky snorted to himself. 

Wide-eyed, the kid took in Bucky’s place: empty bookshelf; plain white walls; grey tile floor. “This is - this is a nice place.”

“You’re a horrible liar, kid, you know that?” Bucky flipped his breakfast onto a plate and sat at the small metal table in the kitchen. The kid joined on the other side, looking wistfully at Bucky’s plate of food. “You hungry?”

The kid continued to stare at Bucky’s food. “No.” Faintly, Bucky heard the kid’s stomach rumble. 

Bucky sighed. “What did I  _ just  _ tell you?” He stood and moved back to the fridge, pulling out the carton of eggs and cracked two back into the frying pan. 

“I did eat this morning,” the kid protested, “it’s just that I’m hungry all the time.”

“So was Steve.” The guy was a pit - Bucky vaguely wondered how much of his salary he spent on food. Whatever Bucky was injected with, it hadn’t affected him to the same extent. Sure, he ate more than most, but it wasn’t something he actively had to worry about. 

The kid looked like he wanted to say something more, but chose to keep quiet and watch Bucky cook. 

“Thanks,” he said when Bucky set the plate of toast and eggs in front of him.

“Don’t let yourself get too hungry. It could make you vulnerable to an attack.”

The kid swallowed his mouthful of scrambled egg. “Thanks for that advice.”

Bucky dug into his plate of food. “You’re welcome.”

“So,” the kid started, “if you’re really serious about this - this whole ‘stalking’ thing -”

“Watching out for you, but go ahead.”

“I have rules.”

“Shoot.” Bucky topped up his mug of coffee and gestured at the kid.

He shook his head. “First rule - you can’t interrupt me when I’m with my friends. And especially not when I’m on a date.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky said, “but don’t forget that technically  _ she  _ found  _ me. _ ”

The kid ignored that comment and another forkful of egg and toast into his mouth. “Second rule - no telling me to step down.”

“I already told you that I wouldn’t do that.”

“Third - no interacting with anyone else I know. If they see you, the story is that you’re my Uncle. A relative from my mom’s side that crawled out of the woodwork. But you can’t seek them out.”

“Alright,” Bucky said. He plucked an apple out of the bowl on the table. “Does your Aunt know?”

“I haven’t told her yet, but I will tonight.”

“Okay.” Bucks sighed. “But I have rules too.”

“That’s not what -”

“First rule - we stick to the cover story. If it’s going to work, you’ve got to invest in it too.”

The kid frowned. “I guess so.”

“Second - I get access to your location. If I’m not going to be around you all the time, I need another reliable way to help if you get in trouble.”

Under the kid’s breath, he grumbled something about babysitting. Bucky chose to ignore that.    
“Third - you gotta train with me.”

“Train, like,” the kid mimed punching. 

“Yep,” Bucky said. “You need to learn to defend yourself if I’m not there.”

“I’ve gotten by so far.”

“That’s true, but none of the people you’ve fought have been able to go toe to toe with you.”

“Hey - that’s not fair. In Berlin -”

“In Berlin, we were all holding back. No one was fighting with the intent to seriously harm, let alone kill. You need to learn to fight and not just rely on your strength alone.”

“Fine,” the kid spat. “Is that everything?”

“I think so.” 

The kid reached into his backpack and pulled out a ballpoint pen and a red coiled notebook. From the back, he tore loose a page. Across the top of the jagged-edged paper, he wrote: Rules for Stalking Peter. Underneath the large heading, he scrawled down his three stipulations. 

“Do I get to add mine?” 

“I guess,” he said and pushed the paper toward Bucky. Under Peter’s rules, he wrote: Bucky’s Rules for The Kid. In his neat, loopy handwriting, he added his three conditions. “That look alright?”

“I guess.” The kid took the paper back from Bucky and walked up to his fridge. “Do you have a magnet?” 

Bucky shook his head. 

“Tape?”

“To your right - in the top drawer.”

The kid ripped off a piece and stuck their rule list in the center of Bucky’s fridge. “We’re gonna stick to this, okay?”

“Sure kid, of course, we will.”

That night, as the kid headed out on his patrol, Bucky didn’t follow him. Instead, he opened his laptop and watched the red flicker of the tracker weave through the streets of New York. 

 

The next day, at six in the morning, the kid showed up at the edge of Forest Park, as they’d agreed. His eyes were rimmed with red and his tufts of hair stuck out in wild directions. “How’d you get up this early?”

Bucky stretched his arms. The cool morning meant that his long-sleeve shirt wouldn’t draw the same attention as it would mid-day. Besides, the cool weather was better for jogging. “You agreed to the training. This is part of it.”

“I thought you meant, like, cool ninja-assassin moves. Not early morning runs.”

“This is just as much a part of learning the ropes as the other techniques.”

The kid’s eyes perked up. “So we  _ will _ get to the ninja-assassin ass-kicking?”

“Sure, kid. Eventually.”

“I don’t believe you.”

They took off at an easy pace. Bucky lead the way, jogging along, while the kid followed easily behind him. What he lacked in form, he made up for in natural atheism. He swung his arms too widely and he didn’t bring his knees up high enough. “Is that as fast as you can go?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s not about speed, kid. 

They loop through the trails of the park - gravel and flanked by a spread of trees and underbrush. As Bucky’s feet hit the ground, he imagined this small slice of forest spreading out over New York. Instead of skyscrapers, there would be a tangle of aspen and birch. There would be deer instead of trucks. Fish in the Hudson instead of trash. 

It might be nice. 

Bucky shook his head clear and fell back into the rhythm of his pace.  Someone else had thought like that - there was no point in lamenting about what was lost. They needed to focus on forging a better future.

He pulled away from the greenery of the park, back into the thick of Queens. Their feet steadily struck the cement of the sidewalks. Cars and bikers and other joggers filtered past, but the streets were still quiet when they reached the place they had started once again. 

After the first three loops, the kid’s pace faltered while Bucky’s remained as steady as when he’d started. 

Around the fifth mile of their loop through the park and surrounding neighbourhood, the kid strained to keep up with Bucky. His breathing sounded shallow, uneven and gasping. 

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s - I’m good.” He wheezed. “Great.”

Bucky slowed to a stop. “Kid?” A drop of sweat trickled down and pooled at his lower back, but he wasn’t anywhere close to being out of breath. 

The kid pressed his hands against his knees. “I’ll be alright. Just - give me a minute.” 

Bucky hesitated, unsure of what to do. “Does this normally happen?”

The kid shook his head. “Well, I don’t normally jog.” He stretched again and took a deep breath, finally, to Bucky’s pleasure. “I think it’s, uh, a mental thing.”

“Oh?”

The kid nodded. “I - before all this, I used to have asthma.”

“Of course you did.” Bucky grimaced. The world flickered, and he was fifteen again, standing next to Steve in an alley or behind the school. With asthma came fear. If there was another guy giving Steve a tough time, Bucky could punch him away. He couldn’t stop the problem that brewed inside. 

“Sometimes, when I think about how hard all this used to be, I just panic. It’s like my breath gets caught inside my chest,” the kid said, rubbing at his chest and damp shirt, but thankfully breathing steadily. “I - I’m sorry for ending the training.”

“It’s alright, kid. I should have started smaller.” As they walked back toward the kid’s place in Queens, the sun climbed higher in the sky. More people exited their buildings, and a steady stream of cars flowed on the streets. “You gotta raise your knees higher. When your feet come down, right now they’re stopping your momentum when they fall. Land in the middle of your feet.”

The kid’s face twisted in thought. “I didn’t realize there was a proper way to run. I thought it was just natural.”

“I told you - technique is important. If you wanna be at the top of your game, you gotta train for it.”

The kid noded, once. When they reached his place, Bucky left him standing there. “Take a shower, have some food and get some rest,” he instructed. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”

“But it’s my first day of school.”

“Sorry - next time aliens are destroying the earth, I’ll just tell them to come back when you don’t have school.”

The kid gave him a pointed look. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Barnes.”

“See you, kid.”

 

The next day, Monday, they do the same - meet at the edge of the park at six. They jog, again, but slower this time. Bucky stopped every quarter mile or so and let the kid rest. They practiced short sprints over the path and Bucky corrected the kid’s wonky gait. 

Just before seven, Bucky called it a day. The kid looked better - he resembled an actual jogger instead of a baby deer. 

Bucky swung the keys to his civic around his hand as they walked back to the kid’s place. “You ready to go to school.”

“I can just take the subway.”

“That wasn’t an option.” 

The kid shrugged - he knew it was a losing fight. “Fine. I just need to shower and change. I’ll be ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Fine,” Bucky said as he leaned against the wall outside. 

The kid eyed him. “You don’t have to wait out here. You can come up.”

It  _ would  _ be advantageous to case the kid’s apartment. He followed the kid up the stairs without protest. As they climbed, the kid greeted his neighbours with a warm smile. 

They entered his place and the kid showed Bucky into the living room. “Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be quick.”

Bucky nodded. The kid slammed the bathroom door, and Bucky stood, taking the room in. 

The place was nice, as far as apartments went. There was a window on the East side, out of which he could make out the faint city skyline. 

Photographs dotted the walls. Some were of the kid, but there were a fair number of other pictures of people who’d filled the kid’s file. In the little headshots clipped to the document, it was easier to think of them as just a name. It was harder to remain detached when he stared into their smiling eyes at Conney Island or when he studied the way their hands folded together at a wedding. All of these people, happy and living, blissfully unaware of how the world would twist in a few short years. Bucky wrenched his head away, forcing himself to change his line of thought. 

The decorations were carefully chosen. On the far wall, a bookcase was packed full. Trinkets, potted plants, and small sculptures were carefully arranged between the rows of books - many on colour theory, design, and artists.

“Those are mine if you’re wondering.”

Bucky almost started at the noise but measured his reaction. He turned to see the kid’s aunt, May, standing in the front of him, her long hair twisted over her shoulder.  “They’re nice,” he said, trying to sound casual. Truthfully, he hadn’t expected her to be home. He figured the kid would’ve mentioned. 

“I’m May,” she said.    
“James,” Bucky said and shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Please, call me May.” She moved into the kitchen and held out a box of orange juice. “You want some?”

“Uh, sure.” Bucky sat at the stool on the other side of the counter and stared at the woman, trying to get a read on her. He’d read about her in the kid’s file. She was a graphic designer, worked for some consulting firm uptown. The art books, her trendy dress, and wire-frame glasses - it all added up nicely. 

What did  _ not _ quite fit, however, was how she knew the kid’s secret. How she was alright with the kid’s dangerous alter-ego. 

Bucky accepted the orange juice and drank it out of politeness. There was too much pulp for his taste - the mush stuck in the spaces between his teeth. “Thanks,” he said. He had a long time to figure out the nuance in her relationship and attitude toward the kid. He wasn’t about to blow the good terms between himself and the kid by pushing the Aunt before she was ready to speak. 

“So,” she said, looking down her nose at Bucky. “You’re the one who’s ‘taking care’ of Peter.”

“Yes, ma- May.”

“Hmm.” She packed a brown lunch bag, apparently disinterested in Bucky. It was a feint, he knew, but he played along. “Well, it can’t hurt to have someone watching his back.”

“I agree.” Bucky set down his empty glass.

Luckily, he was spared from more awkward small talk. The kid practically sprang out of the bathroom, his hair wet and slicked over, wearing a blue plaid shirt. “May - I thought you were at work.”

She smiled at him. There was a hint of a ‘we’re going to talk about this later’ look in her eyes. “I couldn’t miss you on your first day of senior year.” She handed him the bag. “There are so many exciting things ahead for you, Pete.” She pulled the kid in and squeezed him in a hug.

The kid squeezed back. “Thanks, May.”

Bucky stared at the floors boards. The wood had a nice stain. 

After a moment, the two finished up their good-byes and promised to check in with each other throughout the day.    
“Have a good day, James,” she said to Bucky. Her eyes, he decided, where dangerous. Like Natasha’s when she had a whole plan worked out in her head.

“Thanks. You - you too.” 

He walked out of the apartment with the kid. “Ready for your first day?”

The kid shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.” 


	6. Chapter 6

To Bucky’s surprise, the kid didn’t slide into the passenger side of the car. Instead, he threw himself down in the backseat, directly behind Bucky, tossed his backpack next to him, and clicked in his seatbelt.

Bucky said nothing. He adjusted the rear-view mirror, bringing it lower until the kid’s whole head was visible in the glass. Bucky put the car in reverse, backed out of the space, and set off on the route to the kid’s school in midtown.

“Um, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky drummed his fingers against the wheel. The rush hour traffic slowed to a crawl. He pulled out from behind a slow blue truck and cut through a parking lot, before rejoining the flow of traffic on the other side. “Yeah?”

The kid looked a bit pale at Bucky’s maneuver. “You should wear your seatbelt.”

In the mirror, Bucky met the kid’s eyes. “My _seatbelt?”_

He nodded weakly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah.”

Bucky rode the tail of a white delivery van. “Kid.” He whipped around the van. “Are you serious?”

“Well - yeah.”

The kid was something else. One hand on the wheel, Bucky grabbed the seatbelt and tugged it roughly over his shoulder. He jammed it into the buckle. “Happy?”

“Very. Seatbelts save lives, you know.”

Bucky shook his head. The kid was annoying as all hell, but at least he kept quiet for the rest of the ride.

Bucky pulled the car to the curb in front of Midtown Science and Technology. “Right,” he said as the kid opened the door. “I’ll be back here at 3:30. Don’t be late.”

“Alright. Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

“You too, kid.”

Bucky watched as the kid joined a throng of kids and walked inside. Instead of heading back to his place, Bucky parked around the side of the street and went for a stroll. He studied the streets, memorizing the alleys and shops and subway entrances. A decent fenced lined the grounds of the school - all things considered, the place was pretty safe: a limited number of exits and plenty of security cameras in the surrounding streets. The kid would be alright.

 

Over the next week, Bucky and the kid continued in their pattern. In the morning, they’d jog. Bucky would take the kid to school and pick him up at the end of the day. At night, he sat in front of his laptop and watched the kid’s red blinking light cross over the grid of the city.

When Bucky wasn’t with the kid, he tried to take in as much of the city as he could. The sweltering heat of summer gave way to the fresh September air, and he no longer felt as out of place in the long-sleeved shirts and sweaters he wore to cover his arm. It became easier to blend into the crowd, easier to remain unnoticed. There was still so much of the city that was foreign to him. New buildings everywhere. Some of the places Bucky remembered were more or less untouched. Others, like Brooklyn and Hell’s Kitchen, had morphed from places for working-class immigrants to trendy areas with unimaginable rent.

His head still ached.

The nightmares still came.

Despite it all, the world was becoming more manageable. Someday, Bucky imagined he might even be able to live in it without being haunted by the ghosts of his memory.

On Friday afternoon, Bucky waited for the kid, as was becoming their routine. The time slowly ticked past 3:30, rolling into 3:45. Bucky tensed his hand around the steering wheel. The kid said Bucky couldn’t interrupt, and according to his location, he was still inside the building. As the clocked inched closer to 4, Bucky stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

He entered the school and took in the halls. Images of scientists and inventors lined the walls, and Bucky couldn’t help but feeling a little jealous of the place. He would’ve given everything to go to a school like this when he was young.

“Can I help you?” A young woman in a frilled pink blouse poked her head out of the office.

“I’m here to pick up my nephew,” Bucky lied. “He’s late.”

The woman gestured to Bucky to come into the office, so Bucky followed. She sat behind the main computer. “What’s your nephew’s name?”

“Peter Parker. He’s a senior.”

The woman nodded paged the kid to the main office over the intercom speaker and then turned to her computer, typing away. “We’re still updating some files,” she explained. “After, you know, everything.” She waved her hand vaguely around as if that explained the horror. “It’s been a real mess, I’ll tell you that much. And the old secretary, the one in the job before me, she wants the job back. Waiting for me to fail so she can swoop in and take my place. But I mean it’s not _my_ fault she disappeared.”

Bucky forced the corners of his mouth up in a smile. “No, it’s not.”

As it turned out, Bucky didn’t need to worry with fake peasantry - the woman was absorbed in her screen. “Ah, here we go, Peter Parker. Right now the only contact we have for him is May Parker, his aunt. I’m assuming you’re her husband?”

Bucky chuckled. “No, actually. May’s a relative on his father’s side. I’m on his mother’s.”

The woman nodded, her eyes perking up at Bucky’s relationship status. Her eyes flashed toward his hand, likely searching for a ring, but Bucky kept his left hand buried in his pocket. “I’ll need your name and phone number for the contact information," she said.

“James Fitzpatrick,” Buck said and gave her the number of his cell.

“Hi, I was paged -” the kid stopped as he walked in, turning from the secretary to Bucky. “What - what are you doing here?” His voice rose up at the end.

The secretary smiled. “Your uncle was looking for you.”

“Didn’t know where you’d gone off to,” Bucky said to the kid.

“Sorry - Mr. Harrington wanted to talk about me joining academic decathlon this year. I didn’t realize how long we’d been talking.”

The kid left the office, and Bucky followed. He smiled and jerked his head at the secretary as a goodbye. “Just let me know next time.” They crossed the lot to Bucky’s dingy car. “I _do_ know how to text.”

The kid nodded, opened the back door, and tossed his backpack inside.

“Hey, penis!” A voice called from across the parking lot. The kid’s hand tensed against the doorframe.

Bucky turned to see another kid across the lot, lounging in front of a sleek Porsche with a girl who was much too pretty for him at his side. “Nice ride!”

“Ignore it,” Bucky whispered to the kid. The kid stood still and tense with the car door open, measuring out his breathing. “He doesn’t matter,” Bucky repeated.

“I guess it’s been a bit of a downgrade since your sugar daddy up and died on you, hey?”

Bucky reached out and tightened his metal grip around the kid’s bicep, clamping onto him like a vice before the kid could do anything stupid. “Don’t engage,” he hissed in the kid’s ear, “that asshole is not worth the fight.”

Despite Bucky’s warning, the kid tried to push Bucky off. “Just - just let me -”

“No.” Bucky had seen the kid fight, he’d even _fought_ the kid, but still, the raw strength of the skinny kid came as a bit of a surprise. Bucky might not have been the only one pulling punches in Berlin. His metal arm shook and whirled. “Kid. Take a deep breath - breath in and count to four.”

The kid closed his eyes and did.

“Now hold that breath - count to four. Let it out, for four. Hold on empty for four.”

The kid followed along with Bucky’s instructions. They repeated the rhythm for a few cycles.

“You can let go,” the kid said. “I won’t do anything.”

Reluctantly, Bucky loosened his hand from the kid’s arm. The kid, true to his word, just flopped into the back seat of the car and slammed the door. Bucky climbed in the driver’s side and looked back at the kid, unsure of what to say. The kid turned his head and stared at the window, his eyes red. Bucky turned back and kept his focus on the road as they drove in silence. The kid didn’t even chide Bucky for not wearing his seatbelt on the drive back to Queens.

 

Later that night, as Bucky’s cooked up a late dinner of chicken and vegetables and rice, an alert pinged from his phone. There was an explosion, a large one, in Manhattan - one of the labs at Empire State University. First responders were at the scene, but the cause was still unknown.

Bucky clicked off the stove top and flipped open his laptop and, sure enough, the red blink of the kid’s tracker was pushing through Queens, toward the heart of the city.

“Shit.” Bucky shut his laptop, pulled out the black box he kept stashed under the bed, and clamoured down the staircase toward his bike, gun slung over his shoulder.

He sped through the city, rounding corners on a dime and cutting through alleys.

When he reached the edge of the ESU campus, the path of destruction was clear, even from a distance. The power throughout the campus had flicked out. Firefighters poured water on one of the buildings - now, only a flame-bit shell - and the row of cars on the Westside were battered in with dented frames and shattered windows.

A uniformed officer held back the crowd, yelling at the gathering crowd to clear out. The students looked on with morbid curiosity, despite the warning.

Bucky couldn’t see the kid.

He peeled off from the growing crowd, toward a brick building a few storeys high. He climbed the fire-escape Ssuccussionon the edge with ease, and from the roof, surveyed the situation. The area was dark, between the cover of night and lack of power, with the only light coming from the blaze in what must’ve been the lab.  

A bolt of light cracked open the darkness.

Bucky tensed and fixed his sight on the origin, ignoring the sharp, burnt air.

Again, a blot split into the darkness. This time, the end connected with a grand pine tree. The electricity arced through the wood, send the core of the pine splattering over the ground in a fiery explosion.

The new light of the burning pieces lit up the scene.

On the ground, the kid, in his colourful costume,  was locked in combat with a figure in a dark, rubber-looking suit. The kid jumped and seconds later a stream of electricity collided with the dirt under him. In the air, the kid twisted and let a rapid stream of webs fire loose from his wrist. One hit the dark figure square in the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

The man stood. Blue light danced in his hand.

 _The guy is throwing electricity,_ Bucky realized. Bucky dug into his pocket and hit the alert for Fury - they’d need backup for this one. No ordinary prison would hold this guy.

Bucky set his gun on the edge of the roof and lined up his scoop with the electric-man. The kid and the man were too tight, their fighting too messy for Bucky to find a clear shot. Bucky waited. He tried to slow the hammering of his heart.

The kid got in a lucky throw - his web caught the electric-man when he lowered his guard. The man hit the side of another building, stuck to the wall.

“Is that the best you got?” Bucky heard the kid taunt.

 _Shut up._ Bucky kept his scope locked on the man and his finger over the trigger of his gun. He readied himself to take the shot if the man so much as flinched.

A red and blue back blocked his line of sight. _Move, kid._ Bucky wanted to shout, to yell across the campus. Fury, hopefully, had got the signal, but there was no telling how long it would take before backup arrived.

“Thor would be so disappointed - you rip off his gimmick and you don’t even do it well,” the kid quipped.

A burst of electricity shot out from the man, throwing the kid back.

“Shit.” Bucky dropped his gun, and dropped down, off the rooftop, and beelined toward the kid.

The kid stood up and wiped the dirt from his side. He fired a line to the roof of a building, and in a wide arc, swung around with his feet forward, ready to kick the man to the ground.

Mid-air, a stray bolt struck the kid in the chest. The momentum flung him back - the kid hit the side of a building with a gut-twisting crunch. Bucky stopped running toward the man and turned, sprinting toward the kid.

The kid had fallen to the ground, bringing loose rubble from the impact down with him. His form was limp on the grass.

Bucky raced to the kid and pushed the bottom of his mask up.

The kid was breathing.

Tension faded from Bucky’s muscles. He pinched the kid’s shoulder, careful not to move him “Kid,” he said.

The kid didn’t stir.

“Come on, kid.”

In the distance, the roar of a helicopter sounded. Fury. The kid’s eyelids fluttered faintly.

“I need you to get up, soldier,” Bucky instructed.

The kid blinked, slowly.

_Thank god._

“Ow,” the kid moaned. He reached to his head and cradled the back of his skull in his palm. “Anyone catch the plate of that bus?”

“Not the time for jokes, kid. I need you to tell me where you’re hurting.”

The roar of the chopper grew loud, almost drowning their conversation. “My head.” The kid paused, thinking. “My chest. Everywhere is achy.”

“Any neck or back pain?”

Dazed, the kid blinked. His eyes darted to the sky, searching for the source of the noise.

“Parker,” Bucky said, his teeth gritted. “Any neck or back pain?”

“Uh, no. No.”

“Come on then. Let’s get you up.” Bucky looped his arm under the kid and hauled him to his feet. He wrapped Parker’s arm over his shoulder and supported his weight.

The man had vanished.

In the clearing, the helicopter touched down. From the door, Maria Hill jumped out.

“Lost the perpetrator,” Bucky said. “I’ve got the kid.”

Hill nodded curtly. “I’ll get you a car.” She turned to the others in the chopper and started to coordinate their search.

Parker stayed lucid, although weak.

With a blare of sirens, several unmarked but sleek cars pulled to the scene. “Take the one on the far left,” Hill directed Bucky.

He nodded at her. “Come on, let’s get you home,” Bucky said.

Parker nodded and held his hand to his chest, rubbing at the spot where the bolt had struck him. “Alright,” he said.

Bucky shouldered more of Parker’s weight and lumbered toward the vehicle Hill arranged for. The other agents poured over the wrecked scene. Bucky helped Parker into the back of the SUV and mentally made a note to thank Hill for picking a car with tinted windows.   
The agent handed Bucky the keys and Bucky stepped into the driver’s seat.

He drove back to Queens with care, taking the corners slowly and following the speed limit. In the back, Parker stayed quiet.

As they thundered down the expressway, Parker spoke up. “You should wear your seatbelt, you know.”

Bucky clicked the buckle in without complaint.


	7. Chapter 7

“This isn’t my place,” Parker said wearily when Bucky pulled into the parking garage.

“No, it’s not.”

“Where - where are we?”

“My place,” Bucky said. He parked the SUV in a visitor spot and turned back to look at Parker.

A faint warmth was coming back into his skin. His eyes were a little more lively, more focused, than when they’d left ESU.

“Why are we here?”

“You need medical attention.”

Parker waved his hand in dismissal. “You can just take me home. I’m good.”

“It’s either here or a hospital. And seeing as you’re currently still in your red and blue onesie, I’m guessing you’d rather it be here.”

“It’s not a onesie,” Parker grumbled. “Why does everyone call it a onesie?”

Bucky chose not to reply to that. He went around back, pulled the emergency blanket from the first aid kit, and handed it to Parker. “Cover up your _uniform_ ,” he instructed. “I don’t want anyone to see you on the way up.”

Parker listened. The blanket was large - designed to provide warmth to multiple people in the event of a crash - which worked better for covering anything identifiable.

“Can you walk?”

He nodded. “I told you - I’m good.”

Bucky ignored that. He moved slowly, letting Parker set the pace, as they headed to the elevator. The entire ride up, Bucky held his breath and prayed no one else would enter.

He guessed that life owed him _some_ good luck, because no one else stepped in the elevator. Part of that might have also been because it was nearly two in the morning, but it was still a Friday night, and Bucky knew some of his neighbours worked odd hours.  

In Bucky’s place, he set Parker on his bed and fetched the array of first aid supplies that whoever had stocked his place had left him.

“Alright, swallow these,” Bucky said, handing Parker some ibuprofen and a glass of cool water.

Parker stared at the pills in his hand. “You don’t have anything stronger?”

“Not on me, no.”

Parker grimaced. “It’s fine, I just figured if anyone had something that worked, it would be you.” He swallowed them and rested his head against the headboard. “I just burn through them so fast.”

“I get it,” Bucky said. He eyed Parker, but he didn’t offer any more information. Bucky had assumed that Stark or someone would have worked something out - it seemed a significant oversight. Bucky downplayed his annoyance - if they didn’t even have painkillers, what else had they overlooked.

Bucky held the penlight in his hand and shone it over Parker’s eyes. Both of his pupils constricted equally to the stream of light - a good sign.

“Can you take off the top of the uniform?”

Parked nodded and moved gingerly, stripping off the uniform. Bucky turned his back to give Parker some privacy and moved to the kitchen. He came back with a bag full of ice.

Parker pressed the ice against the side of his head on a small lump. He closed his eyes and let out a little sigh of relief.

Bucky stared at Parker’s chest. In the center, where the electricity had struck him, a black burn marred his skin. Small black lines bolted out from the dark middle, but even as Bucky watched, they faded to grey and meshed with the colour of his skin. “Hell of a healing factor you got there.”

“I told you, I’m fine. I just need to let May know.”

“I’ll send her a message.” Bucky opened his closet and pulled out a burgundy shirt - a short sleeved one he’d never worn. He tossed it at Parker, who shrugged it on. In the too big shirt, he looked even smaller. “How do you usually deal with it when you’re hurt?”

Parker shrugged. “I picked some stuff up from the drugstore. It’s not too bad - I can close most cuts with butterfly strips. Usually, I don’t have to worry - more often than not I’m good by the time I’m home. If not, I’m fine by the morning.”

“Hmm.” Bucky sat at his kitchen table.

Parker closed his eyes again, and some of the tension left his face. He looked so young without the defensive crease.

“I hate to be the bad guy here,” Bucky said, “but I can’t let you sleep. Not yet, at least. I’ve gotta make sure you’re getting better, not worse.”

“It’s okay,” Parker said. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, probably noticing the same spot that Bucky had when he’d first moved in. “I haven’t really slept in a long time.”

Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that. “Oh?”

Parker’s face flushed. “I mean, it’s only sometimes,” he backtracked. “Usually, I’m all good. Totally fine.”

“Uh huh.”

They sat in silence, the weight of their wars crushing against the walls of the tiny apartment.

“When I close my eyes, I’m back at the wreckage of the compound.” Parker looked at Bucky, desperate, as though the trauma had not been real until that moment, as though by speaking about it he had given it life. “I - I had the gauntlet. I was trying to get it to the van when the ship started firing. I couldn’t make it under one of the shields. I just - just collapsed. On the spot. I curled into a ball and crawled under some cement. They just kept firing and firing.” Parker closed his watery eyes. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

He didn’t speak about everything that happened after. He didn’t need to. “I’m sorry,” Bucky said, his voice surprisingly raw.

Parker rubbed at his face. “I didn’t mean to get all emotional. I’m just drained and my head hurts.”

“You don’t need to apologize for having feelings.”

Parker looked down, avoiding looking directly at Bucky. “I know. MJ said that too.”

“You should listen to her, you know.”

He nodded. “She’s smarter than I’ll ever be.” Parker sighed. “Just - just when I thought I might _actually_ be able to move past it, fishbowl head played some mind games. Showed me ... _things._ Cap.” His eyes flashed to Bucky. “Morgan. Tony. Those were worse than the nightmares.”

Bucky sucked in a tight breath. He’d known the guy Parker had fought in Europe had messed with him - he hadn’t realized how badly. “Felt like your brain got shoved in a blender?”

“Yeah,” Parker said. “Yeah.”

“I wish I could say it gets better,” Bucky said. “I don’t know if it ever gets any easier. But _you_ get stronger.”

Parker cast his head down and pulled at a loose thread at the edge of Bucky’s blanket. “Do you believe in the multiverse?”

“I - do I _what_?” Of all the things that Bucky had been prepared for Parker to say next, that was certainly not one of them.

“Like - like worlds besides our own. Words stacked on top of worlds.”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Bucky lied. “Do you?”

“Mysterio said he was from another universe. From a world that was like ours, but different. There was still a London and a Venice and all that, but history played out differently.”

“In the end, he was lying,” Parker continued, “but I don’t think he was lying about that.”

“Parker,” Bucky said, “if you start going down the hole of ‘might-have-beens’, there’s no coming out.”

Bucky glanced at the clock. It was nearly three in the morning and, he had to admit, Parker’s head injury was showing no sign of worsening. “Why don’t you close your eyes. Rest if you can.” Bucky stretched out at the kitchen table. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mr. Barnes?” Parker said after a few minutes of silence.

“Mhmm?”

“Do we still have to go jogging tomorrow?”

* * *

 

In the morning, Bucky woke to a thumping sound.  He jerked his head off the kitchen table and opened his eyes, the world still a touch fuzzy.

Parker had gotten up, too. He stood inside the small bathroom, splashing water at his face, in the oversized clothing Bucky had left for him. He looked a little green around the gills.

“That you, Parker?”

He didn’t reply.

Again, the knock sounded. Groggily, Bucky realized the noise came from the door.

Through the peephole, he could see the familiar brown hair swept into a bun.

“Hi,” he said as he opened the door. He didn’t bother asking how she’d gotten up in the first place.

Hill nodded and stepped inside the apartment. Instead of her usual dark uniform, she wore a dark pair of jeans and a dark green sweater. As far as anyone else was concerned, she was just another face in the endless sea of the city. In her hand, she held a dark case. “Found this on the rooftop. Thought you might want it back.”

Bucky thanked her and accepted his rifle back.

“I’ll trade you.” He handed her the keys to the SUV. “It’s in the lot under the building.”

Parker wiped his face with a towel and eyed Hill. “Did you catch sparky?”

Hill shook her head. “We’ve got our top people looking for him.”

“I should’ve got him,” Parker said, his eyes dark. “I - I messed up.”

“You did what you could,” Hill reassured him. “If you want, I can take you home now.”

“Or I can,” Bucky interjected. “That’s, um, if you wanted to rest a little more.”

“I’m fine,” Parker said, oddly cold. He grabbed his costume off the floor and walked up to Hill, his back to Bucky.

He didn’t say goodbye when he shut the door.

Bucky sat alone in his apartment and scratched his head. _Teenagers._ Parker was probably just tired.

Bucky’s arm was stiff - locked in place from the uncomfortable position of the night. He rolled it in the socket, trying to loosen up the deep knots in the muscle. The best thing he could for it was to move it - he always felt better after he worked out the twists. Still, it hurt like a bitch but he moved his arm anyway.

From his bed, he stripped away the sheets. He had been meaning to do some laundry anyway - this would only move up the schedule. First aid supplies were still strewed across the floor. Bucky scooped them up and jammed them away in his bathroom, trying to create some semblance of order in the mess. He took the black case that held his rifle from the entrance and tucked it carefully under the frame of his bed.

 _This place,_ Bucky thought, _looks a little less like a tornado ran through it._ He wondered vaguely if he should get a plant, maybe something low maintenance, to make the place a little more lively - a little less clinical. He could put it on his desk -

Bucky stilled. The desk drawer was open, just a hair, but definitely not firmly shut as he always left it.  

He ran his hand over the wood and yanked it open.

Parker's file, thankfully, was still there. The pages inside were messed up - out of order. Someone had hastily replaced them.

“Shit.”

Parker’s coldness didn’t seem so out of place anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments! I read them all, even if I don't have time to reply. (They also motivate me to get the next chapter out faster)

Parker - to Bucky’s surprise - did show up at the edge of Forest Park on Sunday morning. The teen’s hair was a bed-head mess, and the skin under his eyes was a shade too dark, but otherwise, Bucky would have never have been able to guess that just over a day ago the kid had been electrocuted and fell five storeys.

“So,” Bucky said, looking at Parker. He searched for what to say. Bucky wasn’t sorry that he possessed intel on Parker. No, that information was vital. Might save Parker’s life one day. Bucky supposed, if he could find any way to put it, that he was sorry Parker found out. Sorry that Parker had to learn that his life had been flayed open and inspected without his knowledge. Sorry that no one had mentioned anything to Parker, just stuffed all the reports and photos and intel into a manila folder and handed it off to Bucky.

Everything swirled inside Bucky’s head and he dug out the only answer to the question of what to say to Parker: “Ready for the run?”

Parker nodded and buried his hands deeper in his hoodie pocket. His eyes didn’t quite meet Bucky’s. “Alright.” He set off on the trail, the one he and Bucky had ran every morning for the past week.

Bucky followed him this time, letting him set the pace. Parker was a quick study, Bucky couldn’t deny that. He knew ( _from the file,_ he thought grimly) that Parker was something of a science genius. Hell - Parker’s wits impressed Stark almost as much as his blackflips had.

Still, Bucky wasn’t expecting him to pick up the form so easily. The form came naturally once he had a bit of direction.

“Nice work, Parker.” Bucky nodded at him as they reached the end of their loop. “Your, uh, your form’s improved a lot.”

“Okay,” Parker said. He shifted in his hoodie, as though he were uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Another week of this,” Bucky continued, “and after that, we can try mixing it up a bit. Gotta get the basics down first. But that shouldn’t be a problem - you’re a quick study.”

Parker’s mouth twitched. He looked to the park, annoyed. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to pretend to care. I get that I’m just another assignment for you, alright? Just - just forget all that stuff I said the other night. My head hurt and everything just sort of spilled out. It won’t happen again.”

“Kid,” Buck said. “Parker.”

Parker turned on the heel of his dirt running shoe and walked away. He didn’t look back.

* * *

 

Sam drove to Rochester this Sunday.

Usually, Bucky preferred to drive. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sam’s driving - well, sometimes he didn’t _trust_ Sam’s driving, but he also didn’t _worry_ about Sam’s driving. Bucky had survived falling off a train, falling off the crashing Helicarrier, and being turned to dust (among other things).

Chances were that Sam’s driving wouldn’t kill him.

The real reason Bucky hated it when Sam drove was the music.

Rules, on their trips, were that driver picked the music.  

Sam’s taste was terrible. Sam, on the other hand, thought his music taste was _impeccable_.

He sang some terrible pop song, loud and off-key, his hands drumming along the steering wheel.

“Please stop.” Bucky turned his head and watched the greenery of the upstate blur past. “I’m begging you.”

Sam shrugged. “What? It’s catchy - don’t pretend it’s not.”

“It’s god awful.”

“Sorry - would you like me to put on some Beethoven? Is that more appropriate for your age?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “They actually didn’t have instruments when I was young. They hadn’t been invented yet.”

“See,” Sam said pointedly. “I knew it. You gotta trust me, man. Just listen to one of the playlists I sent you.”

“What, waste my free time listening to _this_?”

“ _Come on_ , just enjoy it.” Sam’s face twisted in a grin. “I’ll admit, this song might not be one of the more brilliant ones, but I missed five years of music, and I’ve still got a lot of catching up to do.”

“And this is the best thing that the world came up with in five whole years?.”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “You’re grumpier than usual today, you know that?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “I am _not_.”

“You are an actual five-year-old. Do you need me to stop for some snacks? Some juice and crackers?”

Bucky’s lip twitched. He curled his hand over his mouth and rolled his eyes. “So which is it? Am I a hundred or five?”

Sam shrugged. “Both. Neither. I don’t know.”

It was unfair, Bucky knew, to keep Sam in the dark. If a fight were ever to go sideways - so wrong that Fury wouldn’t be any help anymore - Sam would be the first person Bucky would call. He couldn’t set Sam up to potentially join a team short-sighted. “I think I messed up with the Spider-Man.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Around the wheel, Sam’s grip tightened. He shifted in his seat, straightening up. For all Bucky could fault Sam, the guy did know when to take things seriously. “Can you fix it?”

“I don’t know.” It was the first time he said it out loud. Bucky’s stomach lurched. “I don’t know.”

When they reach Steve’s place, Sam brought the subject up again after their usual pleasantry. It was a subtle mention, casual enough that Bucky could have ignored it if he wanted.

“I messed up, Steve,” he admitted instead.

Steve rose an eyebrow. “How so?”

“He trusted me. More than anyone has in a long time.” In his seat, Bucky sank back. “I wasn’t entirely honest with him.”

Steve paused for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s going to take time, but he’ll come around. Offer him an olive branch.”

Bucky frowned. Before he could reply, Steve spoke again. “Look, Buck. Your options are to either make it right or to spend the rest of your assignment being miserable. I know which one I’d choose.”

Steve was right, as usual. “Those extra years really gave you some insight, huh?”

Steve and Sam both chuckled. “Would kind of friend would I be if I didn’t pass along the wisdom in my old age?” Steve shook his head. “But really, try letting him set some terms. Give him more control over his own life.”

There was a bitterness in Steve words, and Bucky felt a pang in his chest.

It was always about control.

Buried inside, Bucky always resented the lack of control he had. It had been a long time since he had control, _true_ control, over his life. He imagined Steve did, too.

They grew up dirt poor in a depression caused by the greed of rich men who only concerned themselves with getting richer.

In the war, they became cogs in a machine that plucked up young men eager to make the world better and spat out bitter and broken shells.

Steve played the part of America’s poster boy - in the 40s and again when he woke up.

The hand that fate dealt Bucky included murder and brainwashing.

Neither of their lives had been theirs to live. Not for a long time. Maybe their lives had never been theirs in the first place.

That’s why Bucky supposed, he couldn’t blame Steve for his choice to find Peggy. God, it hurt like hell and Bucky couldn’t imagine a future where it _doesn’t_ still hurt like hell every time he thought about it. But, for the first time in Steve’s life, the choice was his and his alone. No economy or war or government forced him into that choice.

Bucky would kill - not _literally_ , he doesn’t do that anymore - for the chance to choose his own fate, too.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that Parker wanted the same. He was just as much a product of everyone else’s choices as Bucky and Steve were.

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky said with a weak smile. “I’ll try.”

Bucky spent the car ride back to the city thinking about what to say to Parker. In his head, he came up with different ideas: letting him pick the training; turning off the tracker; burning the file altogether. None of them would work - at the end of the day, Bucky’s main priority was keeping Parker safe. Neither of their feelings mattered.

And yet, that wasn’t quite right either.

When they met again for their run on Monday, Bucky still hadn’t figured out what to say. They trained in silence. They rode to school in silence.

Tuesday, they did the same. The few words they did exchange were short: clipped and terse.

On Wednesday, Bucky couldn't take it anymore.

He didn’t have a plan, not even the seeds of one, but he spoke up somewhere over the East River. “Look, Parker. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should’ve been more upfront.”

In the rearview mirror, he eyed Parker. The teen rolled his eyes. “I already told you, you don’t have to pretend to care.”

“I should’ve been honest about my assignment,” Bucky continued, ignoring the outburst. “But it was never my intention to make you feel exposed.”

“So why keep all that on me then? If that was _never your intention_?” Parker’s voice was sour, dripping with the annoyance he’d held back over the last few days.

“I’m here to keep you safe. Sometimes, that involves research.”

“ _Research_? Is that what you’re calling it now?”

Bucky tensed, defensive. “Would you rather I not know anything? If your aunt or your friends got dragged into this, would you prefer that I was left in the dark?” Bucky was aware he was toeing a dangerous line, but he didn’t back down. His job, when it came down to it, was to protect Parker. If he didn’t, the world could end up with another Super Soldier running around, courtesy of Hydra.

“You’re no different that Fury. Concerned with security over everything else.”

“Is that so bad? I don’t think you understand what’s at stake. You can’t be so naive. - all that blind trust is going to get you in trouble some day.” Bucky shook his head. “ _Hell_ , it already has gotten you in trouble. Mysterio.” Bucky hesitated. “Stark.”

As soon as the name left Bucky’s mouth, he stilled. He shouldn’t have said it.

“Pull over.”

“Parker -”

“I said pull over.”

Bucky did.

Parker left the car, slamming the door behind him. The glass in the car’s window splintered with the force.

Bucky sat, his hands frozen on the wheel and the cool air blowing in his face. In all the scenarios he’d run in his head, in all the outcomes he’d tried to calculate, none had ended as disastrous as _this._


End file.
